


don’t wanna waste any more time on letdowns or heartbreaks

by angejolras



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Accidents, F/M, Light Angst, Pining, anyway. i hope you enjoy!!, it's not super angsty though, it's really rather lighthearted for a fic involving a coma after a car accident lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:33:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22318675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angejolras/pseuds/angejolras
Summary: Enjolras isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to do, what he’s supposed to say in situations like this. The only words racing through his mind at the moment areI love you I love you please wake up I almost lost you I thought you might have died I love youbut he isn’t going to say that while she’s unconscious.So he scoots closer to the hospital bed and picks up her frail hand, cold, small, and wraps both of his around it, leaning down and gently brushing his lips over her knuckles, blinking back tears when he feels that familiar sting behind his eyes. “Please,” he says at last, a low murmur against her skin. “Please wake up.”
Relationships: Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	don’t wanna waste any more time on letdowns or heartbreaks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/gifts).



> happy birthday, saoirse!! thanks for having put up with me for, what, the past two years or so??? i hope this meets the standard set by last year's birthday fic. 💕
> 
> title taken from just friends by virginia to vegas (thanks saoirse for reccing the song haha)

Enjolras gets the call at three in the morning.

Immediately, he stumbles out of bed, his heart in his throat, slips on the first shirt he grabs out of his closet and almost trips over his own feet as he throws on his coat and rushes out the door, trying his best not to wake Combeferre and Courfeyrac as he does so. The drive to the hospital is the worst kind of torture he’s ever had to endure as he drives exactly the speed limit and flies through green and yellow lights, barely managing to slam on the brakes at the very last second at the red ones. His heart nearly pounds out of his chest, erratic, his breaths coming in short and shallow.

“Come on,” he mutters to himself, uncharacteristically impatient as he debates whether or not to slam on the horns at the car that’s slowed down in front of him for seemingly no reason. He swerves onto the right lane to speed up, sees the bright red hospital sign, and he nearly forgets to flick his turn signal on as he pulls into the parking lot.

He drops his keys twice on his way to the entrance, hands shaking too badly for him to try and slip them into his pockets. He last saw her mere hours ago. She’d dragged him along to the _Hadestown_ matinee earlier that day. He remembers how excited she had been for it, how she’s had the tickets for months. Her pure joy at simply getting to see it brought out a sparkle in her dark eyes, before the tears washed it away at the ending. She’d bounced back quickly enough when they went to grab some Popeyes afterwards, reaching across the table to try and tuck the fake red carnation she’d gotten from the show behind Enjolras’ ear and laughing when it fell out seconds after staying in place.

 _I’m going to Bahorel’s place tonight,_ she’d told him when he dropped her off at her place sometime afterwards. She was absently twirling a lock of her hair around her finger, her olive skin having something of a pink tinge to it from the cold, leaning against the wall. _He needs help with his Secret Santa present for Cosette or whatever. I’ll be home around ten, though? I think. You can call me then._

She never picked up the phone. At first Enjolras didn’t think much of it, because she has her phone on silent most of the time and often only sees texts or missed phone calls hours after she received them. As a result, she likes to crack wry jokes about the plausibility of whether or not she could single-handedly bring back carrier pigeons.

He’d succumbed to sleep around midnight and feels guilty over it. Like he should have known that something was bound to happen. Should have _felt_ it, deep in the marrow of his bones. But while he’d been sleeping comfortably in his bed, Éponine had been wheeled into a hospital room. His heart plummets into his shoes.

Enjolras skids to a stop at the receptionist’s desk, breathing heavily. “I’m—Éponine. I’m looking—I’m looking for Éponine Thénardier. I got a call—she’d been hurt—I—”

He hears someone call his name and whirls around to see a blur of curly red hair, hazel eyes, and freckles against pale olive skin. Azelma. “I’m here, I’m here; where is she? Where’s my sister, _where is she_ —”

It all happens fast, too fast: Gavroche rushing in moments after Azelma did, Azelma barely sparing time to greet Enjolras before grabbing Gavroche’s wrist in an iron grip as a nurse guides them to where Éponine’s staying, Enjolras following close behind, the soft rapid-fire prayers falling from the siblings’ lips in their desperation. The doctor tells them her car had been hit by another, likely driven by someone under the influence. They can’t know for sure because whoever it had been fled the scene.

The ice on the roads only made matters worse.

The doctor runs them through Éponine’s injuries. Enjolras listens with bated breath.

Fractured rib cage. Broken arm. Lacerations from the shattered windshield. Stitches, so many stitches. Head trauma. Coma.

“ _Coma_ , are you _fucking_ —why didn’t you lead with that, holy fuck!” Azelma hisses at the doctor, and for a moment there, she looks like she’s on the verge of violently elbowing past the doctor to get inside the hospital room.

Gavroche anxiously chews on his bottom lip. “When will she wake up?”

“We’re looking at about a week, hopefully,” the doctor reassures them gently. The answer still feels like a truck slamming into Enjolras’ rib cage at full speed. “She’ll be fine. Your sister’s a fighter.”

Azelma visibly exhales, a little colour coming back into her cheeks. “She always has been.”

“You can come in to see her,” the doctor tells them, opening the door to Éponine’s room and stepping aside. “It may help if you talk to her.”

The doctor departs, leaving the three of them standing by the open doorway.

Gavroche immediately darts into the hospital room while Azelma remains outside with Enjolras, chewing on her fingernails, deep in thought. Her face goes ashen as something else occurs to her. “We can’t pay for this,” she realises out loud, her voice small but betraying panic. “This—this is gonna cost so much, I—we can’t _afford_ this, oh, God—”

“I’ll pay for it,” Enjolras assures her, reaching out to place a steadying hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about the hospital bill. I’ll pay for all of it.”

Azelma has to crane her neck a little to properly look into his eyes, biting down on her lip in apprehension. “You don’t have to do that—we’ll find a way—”

“I’ll pay for all of it,” he repeats, firmer this time. “It won’t be a problem. Really.”

She purses her lips, still unsure. After a few moments have passed, she relents and murmurs, “Okay. Thank you.”

Enjolras manages a tiny smile, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. “Don’t mention it.”

They stand there in silence, neither of them quite ready to go in and look at the state Éponine’s in. Azelma rocks back and forth on her feet before Enjolras asks softly, “Does anyone else know?”

“I called Cosette and R on the way here,” Azelma mumbles, biting her lip, her voice sounding as if it’s on the verge of breaking. “I had to leave them both voicemails. But I’m pretty sure Cosette’s listed as one of her emergency contacts. Maybe R is as well, but I’m not too sure about that one.”

“She put me down as one of her emergency contacts as well, didn’t she?” His voice is hardly above a whisper, even though he’s already aware of the answer. He wouldn’t be standing here otherwise. But it’s still hard to fathom sometimes, hard to really grasp what exactly he means to her. They’ve been dancing circles around each other for quite a while now, aware of the feelings left unsaid between them but still not quite one hundred per cent sure, and she’s never been one to be so open.

Azelma gives him a wan little smile. “She might not say it out loud, but you’re pretty important to her, Enjolras.”

He can’t find the right words to respond to that, finding it hard to swallow, so he just shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and cocks his head slightly in Éponine’s direction. Azelma gets the message and steps in, Enjolras close behind her, and he draws a sharp breath at the sight of Éponine lying unconscious on the bed, her left arm bound in a cast, a tangle of tubes and wires all around her to keep her breathing. To keep her alive.

A muffled sob sounds from the back of Azelma’s throat as she rushes over to Éponine’s side, her older sister whom she’s always rather idolised (even though she would never admit to doing so), twenty-five years old, barely able to function on her own. Gavroche is already sitting on the other side of the bed, holding Éponine’s hand between his, his bottom lip quivering. Azelma sinks to her knees on the floor, trembling all over, whispering again and again, “She’s going to be okay, she’s going to be okay,” like she’s trying to reassure herself more than anyone else. Enjolras can barely stand it, sinking down into the chair beside Éponine’s bed and leaning forward to bury his face in his hands.

He lets a few tears slip, no more than that, still not quite having fully gotten the air back in his lungs. He’s numb. He can’t help but imagine the seconds before she got hit, the awful moment when she realised the car isn’t going to stop soon enough, the moment she realised she can’t do anything about it except let it happen, the moment she realised she’s all alone. She probably thought she was going to die then.

His hands start shaking, because, _God_ —he could have lost her. He could have lost her, and she never would have even known how he really felt about her.

Azelma’s resting her head on Éponine’s arm, shoulders shaking, struggling not to cry too loud, too hard, but failing. Gavroche gets up to go around the bed to Azelma’s side, wrapping her up in a hug, letting her sob her eyes out into his shoulder, her tears soaking into his shirt. Enjolras’ heart aches at the sight of them—their winter coats discarded on the back of a vacant chair, the two of them still in their pyjamas, crying together for their sister. He longs to offer a solution, some words of reassurance, but right now he’s too upset and angry at himself, trying his best not to explode from the inside out. He knows it’s irrational. There was no way he could have prevented this, but _still_. Maybe things might have turned out differently if he’d just _been_ there.

He’s not sure how long they stay there, but it’s long enough for Azelma to fall asleep kneeling beside Éponine’s bed with her head pillowed in the crook of her older sister’s arm, tears staining her blue hospital gown, while Gavroche had gotten up at some point and stumbled over to the couch, conking out the moment he collapsed onto the cushions. Enjolras doesn’t move from his chair, just stares at Éponine until his eyes start watering and he has to force himself to blink. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket a couple of times but doesn’t bother taking it out to see what it is. A few times, he considers tossing it out the window.

Soon, the hospital comes alive outside the room, and he glances at the wall clock. It’s a little past nine in the morning.

He jumps when the door bursts open and Cosette comes rushing in, Marius and Grantaire close at her heels, the three of them still in their pyjamas under their coats, which look like they’ve been hastily thrown on. “Oh, my God, _Éponine_ ,” Enjolras hears, but he can’t quite tell which one of them says it since nothing is really registering for him right now. So, rather detached through it all, he just kind of watches people drift in and out throughout the day—Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Musichetta, everyone. All of them offering their sympathy through teary eyes and breaking voices. Grantaire always stays, though, refusing to let the doctors scare him into leaving, even after they remind him that visiting hours are over. He can be surprisingly persistent when he wants to be.

At some point, Azelma and Gavroche get up, the former planting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “We’re going down to the cafeteria. Looks like we’ll be here for a while. Might as well get us something to eat.”

Enjolras shakes his head slightly. “Not hungry,” he murmurs, his voice raspy from disuse.

Azelma gives him a look. “Yeah, we’re getting you food anyway,” and they leave before he can say anything else.

Grantaire stands at the end of Éponine’s bed, running his fingers along the top of the footboard after talking to her for a while—about dumb, meaningless things, like the last time he got high and Jehan turned on the radio and scared the shit out of him when a song with police sirens came on, how his pet Yorkie Toby has developed a disturbing habit of humping his shoes before peeing all over them and how he’s trying to get him to stop, an incident with Joly and Bossuet at a bowling alley that got the three of them banned for life.

He drags a chair beside Enjolras and plops down into it.

“You should talk to her, Enj,” he tells him, his voice somewhat unusually quiet. “I’m sure she’d like that.”

Enjolras nods, but he remains in his seat. He recalls Combeferre’s words from a couple of years ago, when he had come to him and Courfeyrac in the midst of a mild crisis over realising he’d gone and developed feelings for Éponine. _Enjolras, you should tell her how you feel,_ Combeferre had told him with certainty. Courfeyrac had been annoyingly nodding along beside him. _Because the longer you wait, the more she’ll slip away from you. And you know we aren’t guaranteed anything in this life._

 _She feels the same way, you know,_ Courfeyrac had chimed in.

To that, Enjolras had raised his eyebrows. _How do you know that? Has she explicitly told you?_

 _Well,_ no _,_ Courfeyrac had huffed. _But I can tell by the way she looks at you when she thinks nobody else is looking. Just tell her how you feel, Enj. She deserves that, at least. She deserves to know._

And of course he hadn’t told her, the two of them still tiptoeing around each other, aware of each other’s feelings to some extent but never _really_ sure. And now she’s in a fucking _coma_. Those two things aren’t directly correlated, obviously, but it does nothing to diminish the hurt.

Grantaire pats his knee a little awkwardly and gets up, doing little to straighten out his appearance as he throws his coat on with another look at Éponine. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

Once he leaves, the hospital room feels emptier, quieter, the only constant sound being the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Enjolras isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to do, what he’s supposed to say in situations like this. The only words racing through his mind at the moment are _I love you I love you please wake up I almost lost you I thought you might have died I love you_ but he isn’t going to say that while she’s unconscious.

So he scoots closer to the hospital bed and picks up her frail hand, cold, small, and wraps both of his around it, leaning down and gently brushing his lips over her knuckles, blinking back tears when he feels that familiar sting behind his eyes. “Please,” he says at last, a low murmur against her skin. “Please wake up.”

* * *

_“So what is it we’re doing again? And why are we doing this?” Éponine asks from her spot on the kitchen counter, frowning a little as she absently rifles through the stack of fliers Enjolras has dropped into her lap._

_“It’s just a rally, ’Ponine,” he replies patiently, double-checking all of his things to make sure he’s got everything he needs. “Politicians are refusing to do anything about the climate crisis, so we’ll make them do something.”_

_“Why don’t_ you _go into politics, pretty boy?” she asks as she sets the fliers aside and slides off the counter, looking at him with mild interest. “So you can help make a difference. Even more than you already do, I mean.”_

_He smiles a little uncertainly. “I’m considering it,” he admits. “I think I’m going to try to run for Congress when the next election comes around.”_

_She grins up at him. “Representative Gabriel Enjolras. Has a nice ring to it.” She toys with her bracelet, saying absently, “Well, when the time comes, I’m definitely voting for you.”_

_Enjolras meets her eyes, his heart skipping a beat. He isn’t sure whether or not she meant to be quite so straightforward. She seems to realise what she just said as well, how blunt she came across as, and shifts rather awkwardly, averting her gaze and clearing her throat. “Anyway,” she goes on, injecting a little too much pep into her tone, “what am I supposed to do with these?” She gestures to the fliers on the counter._

_He shrugs. “Help us pass them out, I suppose.” He picks up the stack to hand it over to her, and her fingers brush against his as she’s taking the papers from him. Her head snaps up as her shoulders tense, her eyes finding his. Is it just him, or has it gotten a little hot in here?_

_Combeferre walks into the living room then, effectively snapping them out of it. Enjolras hastily grabs his own stack of fliers and looks down at his feet, torn between relief and disappointment that Combeferre interrupted the moment when he did. He sneaks a glance at Éponine and he thinks he sees a similar look on her face. Or maybe he’s just seeing that because it’s what he wants to see._

_Combeferre doesn’t seem to realise he’s walked in on a moment, wholly oblivious as he zips up his aviator jacket and questions, “You two ready to go?”_

_“In a bit,” Éponine says. “Where’s Courf?”_

_“Oh, right.” Combeferre trudges down the hallway to Courfeyrac’s bedroom, and they hear muffled yells and whines and the sound of something rather heavy hitting the floor—probably Courfeyrac, judging by how the whining grows louder. Éponine and Enjolras exchange a look, and she laughs under her breath._

_Enjolras smiles back at her before he goes to pick up his burgundy leather jacket and Hufflepuff scarf off one of the counter stools, slipping it on and stealing glances every now and then as Éponine steps into her Doc Martens and wraps her trench coat tighter around herself, putting on her brown newsboy cap. She peers up at him from under the brim._

_“Let’s go guilt-trip some sleazy politicians!” she hoots, striding towards the door._

_Try as he might, he can’t hold back a laugh, close behind her._

* * *

He comes in every day at eight in the morning to talk to her and only leaves when her doctors come along to kick him out.

Often, he just sits there and holds her hand until someone, usually Grantaire, comes in and talks enough for the both of them. Other times, he would tell her about what’s been going on in his life recently, probably boring her to death with all the little details of the research he’s doing for his latest client and telling her of how his boss only barely let him take time off and work from home for a while, at least while she’s still in the hospital. It amuses him, the thought of how she’d react to his musings if she were conscious. He doesn’t think she’d really care about all that. She’d probably scrunch up her face and roll her eyes, saying something along the lines of _I’d literally rather sit and watch paint dry than listen to you talking in legalese like a dick._

Azelma and Gavroche have temporarily moved into Éponine’s hospital room, spending as much time with her as possible when she isn’t working or he isn’t at school. It’s mostly always him and Grantaire, and less constantly Cosette, keeping her company, their other friends dropping by on their way to work or class. Combeferre pops in often, considering how he’s a resident at that very same hospital, though he usually doesn’t stay long, with all the duties he has to attend to. The cards and balloons come streaming in, placed on a table in the corner. Bahorel gets her one of those teddy bears so big, it can barely fit through the door. Enjolras thinks she’ll like that.

“It snowed again last night,” he tells her, absently toying with her fingers. “There’s so much of it. I passed some kids building a snowman on the sidewalk on the way here earlier. At least some people are having fun.” He laughs under his breath, admitting, “I hate it, though. Not the snow itself; just the fact that it’s so cold out. I don’t think I’ve really gotten used to New York winters. And I’ve been living here for seven years now.”

He pauses as if he expects her to answer.

“Remember that time we went ice skating at Rockefeller Centre a couple of years ago?” he continues, chuckling at the memory. “You were terrible at it and kept cursing me out for being better than you. I’m not being conceited, by the way; I’m only quoting what you said. Anyway, I offered to help you, and you ended up taking us both down when you slipped and fell again. The other people there were pretty upset with us.”

He laughs softly, looking down. “We should do that again sometime. Or maybe we should go to Central Park and throw snowballs at the skaters at Wollman Rink, like you suggested once.”

“Jesus, she’s only been in a coma for three days and you’re already acting like it’s been twenty-five years. This isn’t a Nicholas Sparks movie, Enj. God, you’re so dramatic. Get a grip.”

He turns and sees Courfeyrac leaning against the door-frame, arms crossed across his chest, a teasing little grin on his face. He rolls his eyes. “Oh, you’re one to talk.”

Courfeyrac strides to Éponine’s other side, patting her uninjured arm. “The poor guy’s been tearing himself up over you,” he tells her. There he goes again with his theatrics, Enjolras thinks with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “So you might wanna wake up soon so he can finally tell you that he’s been disgustingly in love with you for the better part of the past three years to your face.”

“Feel free to shut up now,” Enjolras mutters, cheeks burning.

“Shutting up now!” Courfeyrac chirps, cheerful as ever.

There’s a knock on the door and they turn to see Azelma. She looks a little dishevelled, as if she’s run all the way to the hospital, holding bags of Chinese takeout. “Hungry?”

Enjolras can’t recall the last time he ate a proper full meal. He gratefully accepts the kung pao chicken.

It’s only when they’re alone, when Azelma and Gavroche are downstairs in the cafeteria eating dinner, with her helping him on the homework he’s working on as they eat, does Enjolras rest his head against Éponine’s pillow, allows her his vulnerability.

“Remember back in our senior year of college when Cosette and Marius got married?” he murmurs, brushing aside the hair from her forehead so he can see her face. There’s going to be a bit of a nasty scar there, thin but noticeable, from her temple to her cheekbone. “You weren’t too happy about it behind closed doors.”

She doesn’t answer, of course. But he pauses anyway, filling the silence in his head with what he thinks she would say. Something snarky, dismissive.

“It was awful, seeing you cry that much,” he continues, biting his lip. Seeing her break down in tears over her unrequited love vowing to love someone else forever after she grinned and bore it all throughout the ceremony and the reception had broken his heart. “And I did what I could to try and make you feel better, but sometimes I’m a little afraid it wasn’t enough. And I’m sorry if I haven’t been there enough for you. But I’ve been trying to do better. You’re one of my best friends, Éponine.”

This is the part in the movie where she’s supposed to blink. She’d miraculously wake up, and they would all get their happy ending.

“I’m here now,” Enjolras whispers. “So please. Be okay. I need you to be okay.”

His only response is the steady beeping of her heart monitor.

* * *

_Enjolras watches Éponine carefully as they get out of their seats and walk up to her father’s casket, wondering what must be going through her head right now. Nothing in her manner of walking tells him anything, with her even steps. Her mouth is set in a thin, straight line, but her eyes give everything away._

_He resists the urge to reach out and take her hand at the conflicted look in her eyes, seeing how unsure she is of how to feel about her father’s death, considering how he’d been an awful parent. But she can’t very well rejoice at his_ death _. Enjolras has no idea what exactly it is she’s feeling. He’s never been in this exact scenario before, with how he’s got two living, loving parents. So all he can do is offer as much support as he can._

_She absently runs her hand along the side of the casket, biting her lip as she looks down at her father’s body, soon to be put in the ground. Most of the people in attendance linger outside the building, waiting to proceed to the cemetery. Azelma and Gavroche went outside a while ago, Azelma having curtly said that they couldn’t stand to be in that stuffy funeral home for a moment longer. Enjolras can’t blame them._

_“He looks kind of peaceful,” Éponine comments quietly, and then she snorts a bit. “Jesus. I never thought I’d describe him as_ peaceful _. But here we are.”_

_Enjolras steals a sidelong glance at her, trying to read her expression, trying to find out what she’s really feeling. When he comes up short, he softly murmurs, “How are you feeling?”_

_She shrugs, wrapping her black leather jacket tighter around herself and sighing. “Honestly? I don’t know what to feel. He was never really there for me. For us.” As if out of instinct, her hand goes to her left forearm, and although the sleeve of her jacket hides it, Enjolras knows there’s a small burn scar there, from a particularly nasty beating she’d taken from her father a few years back._

_Éponine turns to Enjolras, still with that sad, conflicted look in her dark brown eyes. She heaves a sigh, asking, “Is it bad that I’m glad about the fact that he’s out of my life for good now?”_

_He doesn’t know how to respond to that. He just can’t for the life of him imagine being in her shoes right now. “You can feel however you want to feel,” he says at last, slowly, having carefully considered his words. “It doesn’t make you a bad person. He hurt you.”_

_“Yeah, that’s what makes it worse,” she sullenly replies. “He was an asshole. Obviously I’m not necessarily happy that he’s dead, but it’s not like I’m going to cry about it. I know you’re ‘not supposed to speak ill of the dead’ or whatever, but_ God _. He really was a terrible fucking person. And I feel awful that I’m not as upset about him dying as people probably think I should be.”_

_“They don’t know what he did to you,” he points out, his voice soft. “They don’t know what he did to you and your siblings. You’re allowed to feel however you want to feel, ’Ponine.”_

_“Yeah, well,” she pauses, sniffs a bit, and Enjolras can’t really tell whether it comes from a place of genuine sorrow or if she’s just deep in thought (likely the latter, he thinks, when he gives it some more thought), “it’s complicated as fuck, I’ll give you that. I think I’m going to need more time to process this.”_

_“Well, I’m always here for you,” he tells her, his voice hardly above a murmur. “I’m always here if you want to talk.”_

_She looks up at him, brown eyes meeting blue. The corners of her mouth quirk up in the slightest grateful smile. “Thanks, pretty boy. I… I really appreciate it.”_

_He musters a tiny smile back. “Anytime.”_

_He doesn’t know how long they just stand there gazing into each other’s eyes, the air between them feeling as if it’s gone rather thin, before she finally has the sense to softly clear her throat and return her gaze to her father’s casket, prompting him to do the same. Several moments pass, and he doesn’t know what gives him the nerve to do so, but he reaches down and gently takes her hand in his, tentative. When she doesn’t react, he laces his fingers through hers._

_She doesn’t pull her hand away._

* * *

Enjolras pushes the numbers on the vending machine with a little too much gusto, considers shaking it when this particularly stubborn bag of Chex Mix refuses to budge at first. He stands in the middle of the empty corridor with his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, giving Azelma and Gavroche some private time with their sister, and giving himself some time to think. Some room to breathe.

It’s the ninth day.

Her doctor saw him outside of her room earlier, saw the concern etched into every muscle on his face, and she reassured him that Éponine is going to be okay, that she’s strong, that she’ll pull through. He doesn’t doubt that, not the tiniest bit. He knows she’ll pull through.

But even still, he can’t get the image of Éponine lying unconscious on that bed out of his head, no matter how hard he tries, so he tries to distract himself. He takes his bag of Chex Mix and leans back against the wall, takes his phone out, scrolling through his camera roll—it mostly consists of pictures and videos automatically saved from the Amis’ WhatsApp group chat, although there’s a fair bit of them taken of his own accord. Selfies he has with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, Courfeyrac always having been the one to initiate them. And there are quite a few with Éponine, especially as of late, his favourite being the one where she surprised him with a kiss on the cheek right before he took the picture. There’s one she and Grantaire had taken, from when she stole his phone at their college graduation, the two of them pulling ridiculous faces at the camera. There are candids of her as well: sitting in his bay window and reading aloud from _Jane Eyre_ , the late afternoon sunlight streaming in painting her olive skin golden; getting a piggyback ride from Bahorel at Disney World, Cosette walking beside them holding a handful of balloons, while Enjolras had straggled behind with Combeferre; getting guitar lessons from Grantaire, the pair of them sitting on the sofa in his and Jehan’s living room; in the middle of biting into her shawarma, glaring at the camera and flipping him the bird once she realised what he was doing.

He smiles at the memories the photos bring back, moving onto the videos next. He never really realised how a lot of them are videos he secretly recorded of her, leaning back against his bay window, absent-mindedly strumming away on her guitar and softly singing whatever song is stuck in her head that particular day. Sometimes he’ll catch her singing Taylor Swift. She would never admit it out loud, but he’s gotten her hooked on her music (a long time ago, Jehan had been the one getting _him_ hooked on her music). It delights him to no end.

He honestly doesn’t remember how he fell for her. He thinks it had been a gradual thing, slowly building up over time as they found themselves spending more and more time together, and it feels like one day he just woke up and all at once, it finally hit him. He wonders what the catalyst for him developing feelings for her had been. If he had to guess, it was probably that one time on the subway in their junior year of college, when he saw her kick a man in the shin— _hard_ —for refusing to give up his seat for an elderly woman who had no place to sit. It’s just like him to fall head over heels in love over something like that.

He looks up from his phone, down the hall, looking at the door to Éponine’s room. Something tugs at his heartstrings. An ache settles in his chest.

He can only hope she’ll wake up soon.

* * *

_“Who could ever leave me, darling, but who could stay?”_

_Enjolras angles his phone camera so he’d be filming her as she sits cross-legged in his bay window, leaning back against the glass, a throw pillow propped up under the small of her back, strumming rather inattentively on her guitar, more so out of instinct than pure will. It’s just started getting warmer, though technically it’s officially been spring for a while now. The afternoon sunlight glints in her dark hair, makes her brown eyes shine. She’s wearing his purple NYU hoodie, a pair of black leggings underneath. He rather likes the view._

_She doesn’t notice him filming her, singing softly to herself, strumming away on her guitar. It isn’t until he starts humming along does she stop to look at him, and her mouth falls open slightly in mock outrage at how he has his phone camera aimed at her. “Pretty boy, are you filming me?”_

_He laughs, but doesn’t put the phone away. “Maybe I am.”_

_She rolls her eyes. “Don’t you dare send it to anybody.”_

_He laughs again. “You have nothing to worry about. I would never dream of exposing your soft spot for Taylor Alison Swift to the public.”_

_“I do not have a ‘soft spot’ for her,” she huffs. “She’s got decent songs, that’s all. They’re fun to play.”_

_“Alright, if that’s what helps you sleep at night.” He chuckles behind the camera, watching as she starts plucking at the strings of her guitar, staring off into space. After a while, she starts humming, a different song this time. He recognises it as Madonna. His mother loves Madonna. He can just hear the lyrics in his head. He quietly hums along._

I never wanted anyone like this  
It’s all brand new  
You’ll feel it in my kiss

_“Can you sing something?” he requests in spite of himself. His cheeks flush red when she abruptly stops playing and looks at him._

_“Like, for you?” she asks, and he’s not sure if it’s just a figment of his imagination or not, but he thinks there’s a slight pink tinge to her cheeks. He feels his own burn even more._

_“Just sing anything,” he tells her. “It doesn’t have to be for anyone specific. I like the sound of your voice.”_

_She gives him a rather odd look, smiling curiously as she furrows her eyebrows, and it’s another few moments before she does as he requested, beginning to strum again, humming softly. She starts singing, and he thinks his heart skips a beat._

_“I don’t know what it is that makes me love you so  
_ _I only know I never want to let you go  
_ _’Cause you’ve started something, oh, can’t you see that ever since we met, you’ve had a hold on me?  
_ _It happens to be true  
_ _I only want to be with you…”_

_He catches himself smiling at the sight. Sitting in the bay window, bathed in sunlight, wearing his hoodie and strumming on her guitar as she softly sings. No amount of pictures and videos could fully capture just how overwhelmingly beautiful she looks right now._

_The last thing he sees before he hits stop on the recording is the playful bright-eyed smile she throws his way, dimpled and sharp, outshining the sun._

* * *

She wakes up five days later than when she was supposed to.

It’s driving him a little crazy, with each day that passes by that she doesn’t open her eyes. Combeferre kindly informs him of how he’s become a bit of a nuisance to the doctors, with his constant questioning about _what’s wrong, why hasn’t she woken up yet, what did you do_. It’s a little embarrassing, and Courfeyrac tells him as much. Maybe when this is all over, Enjolras could send them a fruit basket.

The days during which they get no response are chaos. So it’s a little bit funny how anticlimactic it is when she finally does open her eyes. Before she, obviously, nearly gives him a damn heart attack.

It’s just him in the room; the doctors have started to allow only two visitors max at a time, and Grantaire, who’d arrived sometime after he did, is out on a coffee run to the Starbucks down the street with Gavroche. Enjolras is sitting in the chair he’d been sitting in on that first day, mumbling rather absently about how much work he’s missed and how he’s received a few rather harsh texts from his boss the other day that’s made him seriously consider resigning and finding work at another firm.

He’s so lost in his thoughts, too caught up in his own monologue, that he almost doesn’t even hear the raspy little cough and the very rough, “Christ on a bike, this must be what hell is like.”

Enjolras’ head snaps up so fast, for a moment there, he thinks the doctors might have to wheel in another bed for him. “Éponine,” he breathes out, hardly daring to believe it. The relief and stress and heartache dispelling in one soft exhale. He quickly moves to get out of his chair and kneel beside her bed.

She frowns at him in bemusement, blinks once. “I’m sorry, but am I supposed to know who you are?”

He freezes, the colour draining from his cheeks. The doctors never warned him about amnesia, but maybe he should have known that was a possibility. “Éponine, do you…” He swallows the hard lump that’s formed in his throat. “You don’t remember me?”

Her eyebrows furrow, her bottom lip jutting out slightly as her frown deepens, her dark eyes raking over him. “Are you my… nurse?”

“No.” His throat tightens, his eyes stinging with each second she stares blankly at him. He can’t breathe, knowing she really doesn’t remember him. “’Ponine—”

Her frown twists into a shit-eating grin then, and she wheezes. He thinks it’s supposed to be a laugh. “Oh, my God! I got you so fucking good; you should’ve seen the look on your face. You were just—” She pauses, mimics his panic-stricken expression, before dissolving into wheezing laughter once again.

He glares daggers at her, but his annoyance is outweighed by relief at the fact that she remembers him. “Fuck you. That’s not—that wasn’t even a little bit funny. Jesus Christ. You were—I thought—oh, God, I think I’m going to be sick.”

She grins again, but this time it looks a little more like a grimace. “Calm down, pretty boy. I’m fine. Nothing like a car crash and a short nap to refuel.”

He stares at her, not at all amused by her joke. “Éponine, you’ve been in a coma for twelve days.”

“Oh.” Her grin slips, and she reaches up with her good hand to rub her temple a bit. “Is that why I’m so dizzy?”

“That is one of the many factors, yes.”

Éponine attempts to sit up, but her bruised ribs don’t let her get very far, so she slumps back down. She seems to try to hide her pained wince, but Enjolras sees it anyway.

“So how are you feeling?” he asks softly. He longs to take her hand in his, but he isn’t sure that she wouldn’t punch him in the face with her cast, just because she can.

The sour look she gives him in return conveys how stupid she thinks his question is. “Pretty fuckin’ peachy, thanks for asking. What do _you_ think?”

He sighs, lets his head fall onto the bed, next to her arm. He’s feeling so many things right now, it nearly suffocates him. “I—we almost lost you, ’Ponine. I thought—” He swallows. “When I got the call, I really thought you were going to die. Please don’t ever scare me like that again. I don’t know what—”

“Hey, I’m fine,” she whispers, reaching out to run her fingers through his blond curls. “Just a few bruises to put things into perspective.”

He sighs, murmuring, “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be the one comforting you right now.”

She laughs a little at that. “Well, since when has our relationship ever been conventional?”

Enjolras breathes out a little laugh and lifts his head. “I’m also supposed to be calling the nurses as soon as you—”

“Oh, my God, _Éponine_!”

He laughs again at the interruption, just loud enough for her to hear. “Well, Grantaire is also a good alternative.”

The two of them look to the doorway, Grantaire having dashed back out to fetch the doctor while Gavroche just stands there dumbfounded in the doorway, holding a tray of coffee cups in one hand. And then he’s rushing to Éponine’s side, setting the coffee cups down on top of the little bedside table, a big relieved grin on his face as he takes in the sight of his sister.

Éponine grins back. “What’s up, lil’ bro?”

“Took you long enough,” Gavroche tells her wryly, taking his phone out to text Azelma. “Zel’s at work, but she’ll probably be here soon. Jesus, Ep, we were starting to worry.”

Éponine glances back at Enjolras, wiping her thumb underneath his eye and across his cheek. “Yeah, I can see that. When was the last time you slept?”

Grantaire waltzes in then, saying the doctor is on her way, and he immediately claims his spot next to Éponine’s bed and follows her gaze. “You know Enj,” he says with a tiny grin. “Always putting others first. He’s practically been living here. Gav and Zel are the ones actually temporarily living here, but Enj is the one who spends the most time here.”

Enjolras’ cheeks burn scarlet. “I’ve taken showers, I promise.”

“Sure hope so, pretty boy,” she drawls, grinning at him and poking his bicep. “You were _worried_ about me.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. What kind of ridiculous question. “Of course I was.”

“Everyone was,” Grantaire adds, gesturing to the balloons and gifts they’ve accumulated over the past twelve days, all placed neatly in a corner of the hospital room.

Over the past few years, Enjolras has gotten good at reading Éponine’s many expressions, so he knows she’s touched by the sentiment, even though she tries her best to hide it.

The doctor comes in then, and not even five minutes later, Azelma does as well, crying her eyes out.

Éponine rolls her eyes at her sister. “Please put those away.”

Azelma lets out a watery laugh and clicks her tongue, taking Éponine’s hand. “I’m allowed to be happy you’re okay, Ep.”

“Okay, then, just don’t do it while I’m in the room.”

“I’m going to need to check your vitals, alright, Miss Thénardier?” the doctor says as she approaches her. “Could the rest of you give us a bit of privacy, please?” she gently requests, addressing the rest of the room.

Grantaire frowns. “Do we have to?” he asks, his tone of voice almost petulant, and for once, Enjolras can understand his reluctance.

“It’ll only be a few minutes,” the doctor assures him.

Enjolras is rather hesitant to leave Éponine’s side, but as he gets up, she reaches for his hand and gives it a little squeeze, so that reassures him a bit. She’s _okay_. That’s really all that matters at this point. It feels like a huge weight’s been lifted off his shoulders.

Azelma and Gavroche linger for a little while longer before they’re shooed out as well. As they wait outside, Combeferre stops by to talk to him, having heard of how Éponine’s awake. “So are you finally going to tell her?” he asks quietly. When Enjolras gives him a questioning look, he clarifies, “About how you feel.”

Enjolras contemplates it for a moment, and then he nods. “Yeah, I think I will.”

Combeferre smiles at him, teasing, encouraging. “Took you long enough.”

“Yes, I know, ’Ferre.”

“I’m just saying what everyone else has been thinking.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, biting back a smile. Combeferre just gives him a knowing look, the corners of his mouth quirking up as he bumps his shoulder against Enjolras’.

Combeferre’s just gone on his way when the doctor comes out and lets them know that it’s okay for them to come back in, and Enjolras is just about to let Azelma and Gavroche see their sister first before Azelma insists that he go in first. He tries to refuse, but the two younger Thénardiers are weirdly persistent.

“Honestly, Enjolras, you two have been ignoring your feelings for each other for long enough,” Azelma tells him, shoving him towards the door. “And besides, she sees me and Gav every day.”

“You’re her siblings,” he attempts to counter. “You should get to see her first.”

“She already sees us _every day_ ,” Gavroche reiterates emphatically. “Go see her, Enj. She’s probably wondering what’s taking you so long.”

Enjolras holds back a snort. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Azelma shoves him towards the door a little too roughly, and he nearly loses his footing before he grabs onto the door handle to keep himself upright. He hears Grantaire snicker behind him as he straightens back up, composing himself before he goes inside.

Éponine sits up, spooning jello into her mouth, a pillow propped up under her to support her weight, when he comes in. She’s all scratched up, with scrapes and bruises on every exposed part he can see, but she looks a good deal better. She smiles when she sees him, scrunching up her nose a bit in that cute little way of hers, and he almost tells her right then and there.

He thinks they’ve wasted enough time.

“Doctor said I should be pretty okay from here on out,” she tells him through a mouthful of jello, pausing to swallow. “But holy _shit_ , they’ve got me on so many meds. I’m going to be _so_ doped up. Zel told me my car’s completely totalled? Which sucks ass, Bahorel and I spent a lot of time repairing that piece of junk. But I can just bum a ride off of you until I can save up enough to get a new one, so it won’t be too bad—”

“I love you.”

She blinks, a little caught off-guard by his abrupt confession. “Gabriel—”

“I have for a while now,” he goes on, biting his lip. “But I think we both already know that. And everyone keeps telling me that you feel the same way, and sometimes I think you might, but I’ve never been completely sure.” He heaves a little sigh, saying, “I’ve been avoiding confronting my feelings for you for so long. So I’m telling you now.”

When she doesn’t respond, just stares at him for several long moments, he shifts rather uncomfortably, mumbling, “Well, I suppose that’s all I wanted to say, so I’ll just… go now.”

He’s just about to get up when she reaches out to grab his hand, keeping him where he is. She’s grinning at him, amused. “Wow, you’re _really_ bad with words when it comes to this kind of thing, huh?” she remarks. “You’re always so eloquent when it comes to everything else.”

He breathes out a somewhat self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t have a lot of experience in this department.” He takes in a deep breath. “I love you, Éponine. And I know you hate it when people are overly sentimental, so I’ll keep this short.” He looks down into his lap and bites his lip before he meets her eyes again. She squeezes his hand, brown eyes boring into his soul, impatient. “Do you want to go on a date with me sometime?”

She throws her head back and laughs. “Yeah, okay. As long as you don’t let Jehan plan the date, I think we’ll be good.”

He laughs. “Done.”

She smiles at him, fond. “Come here,” she says, and pulls him down into a kiss. Her breath is stale and she tastes like antiseptic, and he never wants to let her go. His hands brush over her ribs and she hisses in pain, and he jumps back.

“Oh, fuck, sorry—”

“It’s okay,” she assures him, laughing breathlessly and pulling him back in. “We’ll just take it slow.”

Taking it slow. He can do that. “Alright, then.”

She grins and closes the gap between them again, and God, he wonders why they wasted so much time walking on eggshells around each other. Well, better late than never.

“Hey, pretty boy?” she murmurs, breaking away from him momentarily.

His breath catches in his throat. “Yes?”

She rests her forehead against his, closes her eyes and smiles before she leans back in to meet his lips. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments/kudos are always appreciated! hmu on tumblr [@bisexual-eponine](https://bisexual-eponine.tumblr.com/)


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